


If the Gun Went Off

by Loopy456



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU Reichenbach, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-04 16:29:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/712745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loopy456/pseuds/Loopy456
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>‘Just so you know,’ John shouts. ‘The gun is his idea. I’m just, you know…’</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Sherlock knows that, to other people, his plan might not be considered to be particularly appropriate, even in such dire straits as these. It’s to John’s credit that he contemplates it for a whole quarter of a second before carrying it out anyway.</i>
</p><p>In 'The Reichenbach Fall', Sherlock held a gun to John's head to enable them to escape from the police. It worked just fine, but what if it hadn't?</p>
            </blockquote>





	If the Gun Went Off

**Author's Note:**

> I should probably apologise for the angst... I am actually sorry, but I just can't seem to help myself. (Please don't hate me for it all...)
> 
> Oh, and obviously any dialogue you recognise belongs to Steve Thompson. Let's all be glad that the rest of this doesn't belong to Steve Thompson, otherwise 'Reichenbach' would have finished very differently. And we'd all still be crying. I am sorry. Really.

‘Just so you know,’ John shouts. ‘The gun is his idea. I’m just, you know…’

Sherlock knows that, to other people, his plan might not be considered to be particularly appropriate, even in such dire straits as these. It’s to John’s credit that he contemplates it for a whole quarter of a second before carrying it out anyway.

‘My hostage!’

John’s shoulders sag in relief, actual relief. Sherlock has a gun to his head and John has relaxed.

‘Hostage, yes that works, that– ’

And then–

Oh God, and then–

John? _John?_

There’s–

That’s–

John?

What?

In the ten seconds it takes Sherlock to process everything – unacceptable, even in situations of stress, absolutely unacceptable – nothing else registers but JohnJohnJohnJohnwhatareyoudoingonthefloorJohngetupcomeonwe’vegottorunJohnwhatareyoudoing…

That’s–

_John!_

Before he even knows what he’s doing or where he is or what his name is, something, someone, who knows, slams into him and knocks his hand away from… whatever it was doing.

_John?_

_Was that you?_

***

They’ve taken his clothes, all his possessions and put him in the standard prison outfit. The room is entirely bare.

Anyone else would suspect that they are under suicide watch. Sherlock knows it. He doesn’t care.

***

The door opens. Lestrade appears in the gap. His face is lined and weary. He lost a friend today.

_John, I’m so sorry…_

‘Sherlock,’ he begins. He has to pause to swallow and clear his throat several times. ‘Sherlock, are you okay in here?’

Sherlock does not dignify this with an answer.

‘It wasn’t your fault, Sherlock.’

He makes no comment on this, either.

‘John wouldn’t want you to blame yourself.’

_I’m sorry, John…_

‘He’s in a better place now.’

_Come back…_

‘I don’t know what you think about all that stuff, but you’ll see him again one day, I know you will.’

_Wait for me, John…_

***

Lestrade shuts the door silently on Sherlock before burying his face in his hands. The man looks utterly, utterly broken. Lestrade is already regretting his brief sprint across the tarmac to yank the handgun out of Sherlock’s mouth.

***

_John, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. It was an accident. The gun wasn’t meant to go off. I don’t know what happened. I didn’t mean it, I didn’t, I didn’t. John, I’m sorry, please…_

***

Mycroft has not appeared. Sherlock is so glad he’s almost sick.

***

Sergeant Donovan turns up with a glass of water. No, not a glass, because he’s not trusted with glassware. It’s a plastic tumbler full of water. He turns his head away. Why should he get to drink? John doesn’t even have a mouth any more.

_John, please…_

Sally Donovan knows a lost cause when she sees one. She turns to leave, but pauses in the doorway.

‘It’s okay to be sad, you know,’ she says hesitantly. She and Sherlock have never got on, right from the beginning, but Sherlock would give anything, take anything to see the usual venom in her eyes instead of that unbearable pity. Don’t pity him, pity John.

_John, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…_

‘You can cry,’ Sally says quietly. ‘We all knew that you loved him, it’s okay.’

Sherlock jerks.

‘We’re not, we weren’t, we’re not…’

John is always clear on this. He has to say it, for John. John hasn’t even got a mouth anymore.

_I’m sorry, John…_

‘There’s more than one way to love someone, you know,’ Sally tells him, and leaves.

_John…_

***

Greg Lestrade stands outside Sherlock’s cell for a long time, his mind spinning. How can he? How can he not?

_Forgive me, John._

***

Lestrade enters again. He’s not here for anything, just to talk. Pointless. Sherlock’s not going to talk.

_Please, John…_

He’s taken his jacket off. Odd. He was wearing it earlier and the temperature hasn’t exactly increased with the progression of the night. If only Lestrade had taken to going jacketless previously, it would have been so much easier to lift his badge out of his trouser… Oh.

***

Sherlock is quite sure that Lestrade does not normally carry a knife around in the left pocket of his suit trousers, particularly not a sailing knife with a two inch blade, used by yacht sailors to cut through stubborn ropes and lines. Definitely not.

***

There’s CCTV in each holding cell, of course there is, but the sergeant in charge of monitoring the feeds, having watched his superior leave Holmes’ cell without incident, finds himself engaged by the DI in a lengthy discussion about alerting next of kin and landladies and the British Government.

The sergeant doesn’t look around for several minutes.

***

‘I wish to offer you my condolences. This must be a very difficult time for you.’

‘I appreciate it, Home Secretary, but my brother loved John Watson. In fact, he was probably the only person Sherlock has ever truly loved or cared about in his whole life. It is only right that they are together.’

***

With a little scrutiny, it soon becomes clear that Sherlock Holmes had nothing whatsoever to do with the kidnapping of Max and Claudette Bruhl. John Watson is cleared by association.

Lestrade suspects government involvement in the investigation.

***

Even Anderson goes to the funeral.

***

The church is packed.

That grey, drizzly morning, every single off-duty officer from the Metropolitan Police Service who did not know John Watson and Sherlock Holmes well enough to attend the funeral, puts on his or her uniform and helps to form a protective barrier all the way around the church and the churchyard. They stop the press from getting as much as a glimpse. 

Mycroft’s men sit in their cars along the road, unneeded.

Kitty Riley’s newspaper article has disappeared without a trace.

***

Lestrade stands in the graveyard, alone. His forehead is screwed up and his face crumpled. Police officers don’t cry.

They buried them next to each other, of course. No-one would dream of separating them, even in death. The greatest man Lestrade has ever known, next to the best man he could ever have hoped to meet. Each man was remarkable in his own right, but together… The greatest of the best, or the best of the greatest? Does it really matter? 

Perhaps they are the same thing, in the end.

***

_Dear DI Lestrade,_

_On behalf of my brother I wish to thank you. It was an extraordinary thing that you did for him and I do not underestimate your courage in doing so. On behalf of myself I wish to assure you that any investigation into my brother’s death will be dealt with quietly and efficiently. After all, my brother was quite capable of smuggling anything that he wished to into police custody._

_I will be forever in your debt, Detective Inspector._

_MH_

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry. Sorry sorry sorry. I hope you can forgive me.


End file.
